The Fame Monster
by InvalidAttempt
Summary: Mike Chang doesn't like Kurt Hummel. Too bad Mike Chang's new job is protecting him. AU, Actor!Kurt, Bodyguard!Mike for the Mike/Kurt Summer Love Fic Fest on LJ.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Fame Monster  
Chapter: 1/?  
Characters/Pairings: Just about everyone is featured at some point... will eventually be Kurt/Mike  
Length: Currently ~1,000 words  
Rating: PG-13 eventually  
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing.  
AN: This is written for the Mike/Kurt Summer Love Fic Fest. The prompt was #68: Movie star Kurt, Bodyguard Mike... The real reason Kurt Hummel doesn't date. This is, obviously, a complete AU. Updates will probably be fairly irregular because I'm a lazy writer :P  
Summary: Mike Chang _really_ doesn't like Kurt Hummel. Mike Chang thinks Kurt Hummel is an egotistical, pretentious fame-whore. Too bad Mike Chang's new job is protecting Kurt Hummel.

New York. The most crowded city in the US of A. He had been living here for two years now, but the grandiose skyscrapers always brought out the wide-eyed and wondering child in Mike Chang. Well, almost always. Right now, the spectacular sights were rushing by in a blur under a clear, blue as he dashed down the sidewalk. The SS Corporation building wasn't far away, but if he didn't hurry up he would definitely be late for his appointment. His tardiness wasn't his fault though; what kind of psycho calls at 1:00 to schedule a meeting at 1:15?

Matt hadn't even been able to give him the details of the call. There was no time, all his boss could do was yell out the destination and the time. That Matt had even agreed to this meeting after hearing _when_ it was to take place was incredible. This must be one hell of a client. That meant this job interview needed to go smooth. Business had been slow lately, but this might perk things up a bit.

Mike turned a corner sharply. He could see in front of him the giant building; it was the tallest in Manhattan since the destruction of the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Ginormous, neon yellow letters covered many of the windows facing the road, announcing that this architectural monster was property of SS Corp. A common joke among the inhabitants of the city stated that at night, these letters were so bright the moon was actually reflecting their light back towards the earth, rather than the sun's.

The crowds that meandered down the sidewalk parted around him as Mike made a final sprint for the doors, like a racer speeding towards the finish line. He skidded through the entrance into the lobby, frantically checking his watch. It was now 1:14. He'd made it, and he was early, too!

Mike approached the front desk, still gasping lightly for breath. (On short sprints, he was invincible, but he wasn't made for cross country, damn it!) The pretty, blonde receptionist smiled cheerfully at him, but her wide grin was quelled as the angry Latina woman who stood beside her put down the folder she'd been rifling through and glared down her nose at him.

"This is invitation-only," she informed him. "SS doesn't hire the unemployed and hopeless off the street, you know. Go grab a newspaper and check out the Help Wanted Section, because you're not wanted _here_. Find somewhere you are."

Mike frowned at her. He knew he probably looked rough, but _they_ were the ones who made the appointment. They caught him on his lunch break! Of course his shirt was untucked and his jacket was hanging loose.

He coughed once to clear his throat, which was slightly dry after his run, then said, "I don't know what you're talking about, but your boss called _me_, okay? He was interested in my services, I guess. I'm Michael Chang, from Rutherford Security."

The blonde perked up immediately. "Oooh, that's right, you do have an invite! I remember now!"

She turned to her co-worker, saying, "I made the call. I guess I forgot. Sometimes, my brain hibernates. Like a bear. And then, I forget things."

The other woman scowled, pursing flawless lips together. She stared directly over his shoulder as she spoke to him, never once looking him in the eyes. For this at least Mike was glad – one glance into her eyes would probably turn him into stone. "Go sit in the waiting room. Down the hall, first door on the left. We'll call you for your interview."

Mike smirked, tipping an imaginary hat towards the two women. (A little screw-you to the one with the bad temper.) As he followed the directions, however, he began to wonder. What was this invite they kept mentioning? He was here to discuss possible employment, not attend a party. What could they possibly mean?

The meaning became clear to him as he entered the room. For a moment, he stood, befuddled, in the doorway, as he stared at the assembled men. He collected himself quickly, and took a seat. Realisation hit quickly as one of the men was called, and sent to "Room 112." This wasn't a job interview!

This was a goddamn audition!

Mike fumed silently. This was humiliating. Rutherford Security worked by a tried-and-true system. The call was made, Matt assigned a man to the job, and a meeting was held to discuss terms. The man was not forced to compete for the position.

Their business had a reputation for getting the job done with minimal fuss and complete devotion to details. Pitting him against the employees of other companies was both insulting and very out of the norm.

Just then, the call came in, asking for "Michael Chang in Room 112."

He stopped by the front desk once again to quickly ask for directions. The bubbly receptionist sent him off after briefly consulting with her still-present and still-irritated co-worker. (She knew Room 112 was down the left hallway, not the right, but she wasn't sure which was which.)

As Mike followed her directions, he considered his chances at getting this job. After all, there had to be over a hundred potential personal body guards in this room.

Who the hell had organized this?

Who the hell was crazy enough to organize this?

Mike opened the door to Room 112. Before him there was an absurdly large desk – it had to be at least four feet long. It was so outlandish and so out of proportion with all the other furniture in the room that it looked cartoonish. Behind the desk was a chair, that was currently facing out towards the window, where a spectacular vista of the New York City skyline could be seen. The chair spun around, and Mike was momentarily blinded by the bright red of the occupant's tracksuit.

The woman reached across her desk to adjust the position of a large golden plaque. Upon this plaque it was inscribed,

_Sue Sylvester_

_Owner of the SS Corporation_

_The Real Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything._

_(Suck it, Douglas Adams.)_


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Fame Monster  
Author: InvalidAttempt  
Chapter: 2/?  
Characters/Pairings: Ensemble; Brittana, Kurt/Mike  
Length: ~ 1,900 in this chapter.  
Rating: PG-13  
Warnings: Mild swearing. Sue Sylvester insults. Vastly AU.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even the computer I am currently typing in.  
AN: Written for the Kurt/Mike Summer Love Fic Fest prompt #68: Movie Star Kurt, Body Guard Mike. The reason Kurt Hummel doesn't date.  
Summary: Mike Chang really doesn't like Kurt Hummel. Mike Chang thinks Kurt Hummel is a pretentious egotist obsessed with garnering media attention. Too bad Mike Chang's new job is protecting Kurt Hummel.

Across the desk, Sue Sylvester glared at him.

Mike Chang glared right back.

"You know," he said, "This selection process of yours is completely against Rutherford Security's employment protocol."

She smiled. It was even scarier than her glare. "Well, buddy, if you want to work here, you're going to have to get used to doing things a certain way. The Sue Sylvester way."

At this point, a new woman entered the room. She looked every inch the professional, clad in a straight skirt and blazer, next to Sylvester's violently colored tracksuit, but Sue was still the more intimidating of the two. The new blonde placed a folder down on the corner of Sue's desk, then departed.

Sue seemed to consider the subject of her insult against his boss closed, so she changed the subject.

"So, you are…" and she picked up the folder and read the name on the heading, "Michael Chang. It says here you've been working for Matt Rutherford for only two years. Not a whole lot of experience as a body guard, Chang."

Mike interrupted. "Yes, but before that I was-"

"Shut up. You were in the army for three years. Positioned in Baghdad. You made Lieutenant by your second year. All your superiors have spoken very highly of you."

Mike nodded.

"You are also a member of our local boxing club."

Mike leaned forward, trying to get a look at her folder. Sylvester pulled it back quickly, before he could see inside. Suspicious, he said, "That's not in my resume, and Puck doesn't keep records of his fighters. Says it goes against the first rule. How the hell do you know that?"

"There's something you need to understand, Michael," she said, leaning back in her chair with a smug smile, "There's nothing I can't do. I admit it: the information in this folder is not, for the most part, taken from your company's website. Sue Sylvester only hires winners, and there simply isn't enough information there to analyze your potential."

He waited. She smirked.

"I, ah, I did a little digging. What you see before you, Michael, is a compilation of data from various information databases created by the US government to keep track of their toadies. I have also inspected your tax records, high school grades, and a collection of photos taken from a security camera at the barber you frequent, because if there are two things I cannot abide, it's losers and bad haircuts."

Mike just knew he was gaping, but he just couldn't seem to figure out how to close his mouth.

"I have over a hundred identical folders, one for each muscle-bound university reject sitting in that room. I really don't need to hold interviews at all- this process is absolutely unnecessary. I already know who's the best. But I'm doing it anyway. And you know why?" She paused, waiting to see if he would answer, then explained, "Because I can."

"So now that I have intimidated you to the point of crying for momma, my work is done. Get the hell out of my office. I'll have Brittany call Mr. Rutherford if I decide you'll provide passable security for my client."

He stood, but before he left, he asked, "And who is this client I might end up protecting, if you decide I'm not completely incompetent?"

Sue gave him a slow smile. "You've got guts, kid. I can't deny I may use them for garters, but it counts for something. Most of the other applicants try to leave this room as fast as they can, but here you are, prolonging your own torment. I love a masochist. The client, Bruce Lee, is…"

"Wait," he interrupted, "You represent _Bruce Lee_?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she snarled, " I was making a crack at your racial heritage. That pansy? Wouldn't be caught dead working for him. Broke his collarbone working as an extra in a fight in 'Enter the Dragon' in '73. Man cried like a baby. I represent Kurt Hummel. Now, leave by that door before I throw you out my window."

Mike left. He slammed the door as loudly as he could as he went.

Once in the hallway, the first person he saw was the blonde woman who had brought Sylvester the folder. She was leaning against the door of room 113, arms folded across her chest and a small, cold smile on her lips. She walked beside him as he headed towards the main lobby, matching him step for step no matter how much he tried to speed up imperceptibly, desperate to just get out of this building. Mike was mildly impressed despite himself, and he wondered how she managed to keep up with him in heels that high.

They were just reaching the lobby when suddenly she grabbed his arm and pulled him into an empty room. Glancing both ways down the hallway, and seeing they were alone, the woman shut the door and locked it.

"I'm Quinn," she said. "Quinn Fabray."

"I'm Mike Chang," he replied, shifting on his feet awkwardly, "and whatever your intentions are, I'm not really interested."

Her eyes widened in shock, then she laughed in delight. "Don't worry," she assured him, "I'm not going to seduce you. I'm running damage control for Ms. Sylvester."

Damage control? Mike had always thought things like Watergate and tsunamis needed damage control, not people. In a way, though, Sue Sylvester could be compared to both those things. She was, he thought, a politically offensive and completely destructive force of nature.

Seeing that he was still in a state of shock following his brush with death, Quinn gestured towards a chair, offering him a seat before sitting down on top of the desk, ignoring the files she was undoubtedly crushing.

She explained, "I can give you the real information about the job. The interview you just attended was for Sue's enjoyment, not your education. She's not interested in even half of the applicants in the waiting room- she just wants the chance to insult them. I handle the ones she's actually considering once the verbal assault is finished. Anything you want to know, I can tell you."

"So you're her, what, her personal assistant?"

She scowled. "No, Mr. Chang. I'm her lawyer. You're right, it should be her assistant helping you here, but unfortunately Santana is too busy flirting with Ms. Sylvester's secretary. But I can still be of some use. I represent both Sue and the client."

Mike frowned, rubbing at his temples. He could feel a migraine coming. He knew he should just walk out of here, never look back. Working for Sue Sylvester would probably be a complete hell, if his recent meeting was any indication. He didn't need that kind of stress. But… Rutherford Security really was struggling. If they were based in Hollywood, business would probably be better, but in New York there was more competition and fewer paranoid celebrities, it seemed.

And Tina was in her second year at Juilliard, excelling, but with no hope of paying for her third.

He sighed. "Alright. What are the terms of the job?"

"Have you heard of the client? Kurt Hummel?"

Of course he had. Everyone knew about Kurt Hummel. He'd been America's sweetheart since his first job at the tender age of nine on the 'All-New Mickey Mouse Club', the year it got cancelled. Hell, Mike had watched that show himself, not that he would ever admit it. Kurt Hummel had won the admiration of millions of viewers with his cute face and beautiful singing, immediately outshining the other actors. He'd successfully kept the public's adoration through the years of his career, not even losing their support after he came out on the Late Show.

That was six years ago. The fact that he hadn't dated a single person since then lost his claim some credibility in Mike's books, however.

Mike wasn't really a fan himself, although he knew Hummel had done some fairly decent movies. However, Tina was madly in lust with the star (in her own particular, quiet way), and she kept herself updated on all the gossip. Since she visited Mike every weekend, he never failed to get all the news.

The lawyer continued. "What we're asking for is surveillance and personal protection. Not on a 24/7 hour basis, but rather on a public appearance rotation. At home, Mr. Hummel has a very strong security system and the best locks money can buy. The job will be to keep him safe at all other times; during travel, fan functions, and filming. Whoever Ms. Sylvester chooses will be paid very well- she doesn't want her main asset damaged."

She passed him a sheet of paper that had been lying on the desk. Mike scanned it quickly; ignoring all the legal jargon he focused on the details. When his eyes found the number scrawled at the bottom, they very nearly popped out of his head.

_$ 212 738 9500._

He worked his jaw, trying desperately to look unimpressed. Finally, he said (and he would swear in front of a jury of peers that his voice didn't squeak), "Is that the payment for a year?"

Quinn leaned over, scanning the sheet, before she found what she was staring at. She smirked.

"No, that's Brittany's phone number. We don't include the financial details on the application form."

What the hell?

"Why is there a dollar sign then?" He asked, completely befuddled.

Quinn made a face. "That means she's making a double offer. From both herself and Santana. The 'S' stands for Santana, and the line down the middle almost creates a 'B' out of half of the 'S', for Brittany."

He stared at her.

She sighed irritably. "Are you going to fill the form out or not?"

Mike took the pen she offered.

_Name: Michael Chang_

_Company: Rutherford Security_

_Employer: Matthew Rutherford_

_Home Phone number: 212-456-3129_

_Mobile Phone number: 212-456-6003_

_Contact e-mail: .com_

_Any debilitating weaknesses? None._

_Any co-dependants? Step-sister, Christina Cohen-Chang_

_Availability: Full time except for Sunday nights, (when I live by the Rules and am not a special snowflake.)_

_Sign here: __Mike Chang_

_Attach resume to this form._

He handed the paper over to Quinn. She assured him that they would call if Ms. Sylvester decided he was worthy. Wearily, he moved to leave the room. At the last moment, however, she called to him.

"Mr. Chang, aren't you forgetting something?"

He turned to her. In her hand she held a strip of paper ripped from the bottom of his form, with the ditzy secretary's number on it. She waved it at him cheerfully.

Mike stomped over and snatched it from her, then he left the room. Somehow, her mocking smile seemed to follow him as he passed the front desk (where the two women were now grinning lasciviously. This wasn't surprising from… Brittany, was it? – but from the other woman it certainly was. Hostile to seductive faster than the speed of light, it seemed.)

He threw the slip of paper into a trash can on his way out.

AN: Yay, an update! The next chapter will have some Kurt, some Mercedes, and hopefully some Puck even. That chapter should be up before the week is out. Please leave a review to let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Fame Monster (3/?)

Author: Invalidattempt

Characters/Pairings: Kurt, Mike, Puck, Mercedes, Artie, and Matt. Pairing will be Kurt/Mike.

Length: ~3,000 words in this chapter

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Mild violence, swearing.

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee. Or Fight Club. Or the Lord of the Rings. Or Le Bernardin (which is a real restaurant, and actually very close to the Ed Sullivan Theatre. Oh yeah, I also don't own the Late Show with David Letterman.)

AN: Written for the Kurt/Mike Summer Love Fic Fest prompt #68: Movie Star Kurt, Body guard Mike. Why Kurt Hummel doesn't date.

Summary: Mike Chang really doesn't like Kurt Hummel. Mike Chang thinks Kurt Hummel is a pretentious egotist obsessed with garnering media attention. Too bad Mike Chang's new job is protecting Kurt Hummel.

The call came from Matt barely a week later. Apparently, he had received a call from Quinn Fabray detailing a list of terms, conditions, and rules of employment that were absolutely _not_ up for negotiation. Nevertheless, Matt had accepted.

"So here's the deal," he had told Mike, "You are working with Mr. Hummel's personal assistant, Ms. Jones. She will send you the schedule for the day, and you follow it. You pick Hummel up in the morning, and stay with him until he heads home again. And," he paused for a moment, grinning, "You get off early on Sunday, at 7:00 pm. Convenient, huh?"

Which was why Mike now stood at the door of Kurt Hummel's penthouse at 5:00 in the morning. Hummel had to be at the set of his next movie in half an hour, so Mike woke up at an ungodly hour to escort him there.

Tina had been ecstatic when he told her about his interview with Sue Sylvester, stammering in excitement as she asked him to get her an autograph. Mike explained that nothing was written in stone, that he may not get the job, but Tina's enthusiasm refused to be quelled. Then, Mike had been subjected to full 'prep': Tina had gotten out her favourite movies starring his prospective client and had forced him to watch them. (Mike fell asleep half way through the very first one. It wasn't boring, really, he'd just had a long day. The women of SS Corp were exhausting.)

The door slammed open. A woman stepped out, chattering away on a cell phone.

"Okay, Artie, honey, sorry it's so early. We'll see you soon? That's right, pick us up at Kurt's flat. Oh! Gotta run, white boy, the new bodyguard is here. Work never ends, does it? Alright, ciao ciao!"

She hung up, slipping the phone into the oversized purse that hung off her arm. She looked him over, slowly. Oddly, Mike felt as though she wasn't judging his strength of character, but rather his outfit.

Finally, she frowned, and said, "Aren't you a little _small_ for this job?"

Mike tried desperately not to roll his eyes. He'd heard it all before. "Ms. Sylvester thought I would do fine. Is Mr. Hummel ready to go?"

She showed no such restraint, rolling her eyes extravagantly with a muttered "what a stick-in-the-mud." However, she did turn, calling, "Kurt, are you ready?"

"Right behind you, Mercedes," the reply came. Before Mike even saw Kurt Hummel, he heard his voice, and he had to admit that Tina was right; Kurt Hummel did have a unique voice- 'like dark chocolate', Tina once said, _rich_ and _deep_ and _dark_.

Then the man himself entered the scene. His voice was somewhat unsuited for his looks, Mike thought; the deep timbre of his voice did not in any way reflect his slim build and soft features. Looking at him made Mike feel severely under-dressed, despite the rather nice suit he was wearing. He had a feeling that the outfit Hummel was wearing probably cost more than Tina was paying for one year at Juilliard. Hell, the ascot alone looked to be more expensive than Mike's car. Everything about Kurt Hummel just screamed 'rich'.

The look Hummel threw at Mike, however, just screamed 'disdain'. It wasn't just the look, really; in fact, his posture, his upturned nose, the position of his hands on his hips, the prim white pea coat, and the subtly raised eyebrow all fairly stunk of superiority.

All in all, not a great first impression.

Hummel held Mike's gaze a moment too long. To Mike, this seemed like a deliberate challenge. However, Ms. Jones interrupted the staring contest with a huff. "Kurt, honey, you look fabulous – that coat is gorgeous; is it from Gucci's spring collection? – but we are running late already. You two can get acquainted later. Artie should be downstairs by now, so we should really hurry."

Hummel nodded curtly, then swept away towards the elevator. Mike trailed behind with Ms. Jones, who was busily scanning her violently purple day planner.

Mike peered over her shoulder at the planner, wondering what was on the schedule today. Ms. Jones, however, had other ideas.

"If you wanted a look-see, you could have just asked, Mr. Chang," she snarked at him, snapping the planner shut.

He sighed, but said, "I'm sorry. What's up for Mr. Hummel today, Ms. Jones?"

Ms. Jones chuckled, replying, "Mr. Chang, you don't gotta call me Ms. Jones. Mercedes will do just fine, capische?"

Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Kurt as she entered the elevator behind him.

"Well, you have to be in the costume and makeup trailer on set in Central Park in twenty minutes; then, you're filming until 6:00. I've made reservations at Le Bernardin for 6:15–" Here, he prepared to interrupt her, but she raised a hand, signalling him to remain quiet so that she could explain. "I know, you prefer vegetarian, but Ms. Sylvester says that meat is the food of champions, because 'anyone who only eats plants is going to die when technology fails, but anyone who can eat meat is prepared for cannibalism. Survival of the best.'"

A speaker in the elevator announced their arrival on the ground floor and the doors opened. Hummel swept through them, heading towards a young man waiting in the lobby. Mercedes followed after him, still talking. Mike walked behind them, doing an instinctive sweep of the room (hidden cameras/mikes, hidden people, anyone watching, any threat?). "Anyway," she continued, "I thought sea food would be a compromise, because it's super low fat. So, dinner, and then from seven thirty and onwards, you're at the Ed Sullivan Theatre filming with Mr. Letterman. You should be out of there by ten at the latest."

The man waiting for them looked to be in his early twenties. He held the door open for Hummel and his assistant, greeting them both cordially and with great enthusiasm, then turned to Mike as the others hurried towards the waiting car. Mike walked beside Hummel's driver out the door and into the brisk morning air. He was suddenly glad for the work clothes – even if they did limit his ability to move quickly – because they certainly did keep him warm.

Just as he reached the passenger seat door, for Mercedes and her boss had already taken the backseats of the luxury SUV, the other man paused and held out a fist with an expectant look on his face.

When Mike did nothing, the other guy shook his fist a little, saying, "Don't leave me hanging, new guy."

Mike sighed and presented his fist to the man. The fists were bumped, and the guy chuckled as he walked around the front of the vehicle.

"You know," he said once Mike was in, as he turned the key in the ignition, "You're the first one that's actually responded to the call of the waiting fist. Either they're too stuffy, or, like the last guy, Tanaka, I just don't really want to touch them. He smelled terrible."

He backed away from the curb, then took off. They drove in silence until he hit a red light, at which point he reached up, adjusting his glasses, then used his thumb to snap his suspenders. He turned his eyes from the road toward Mike in the passenger seat and said with a lopsided grin, "I'm Artie."

"Mike Chang."

A voice from the back drawled, "Artie, you don't have to consort with the hired help just because he's sitting next to you. Awkward silences are healthy."

Amidst giggles from Mercedes, Artie glanced back around his seat (and Mike worried for his life- shouldn't he be watching the road?), and replied, "Kurt, I _am_ the hired help. And you only think awkward silences are healthy because they look good on screen with silly music in the background."

There was a low chuckle, and then Mike found himself forgotten amidst the bantering that ensued. Instead, he gazed out the tinted window at the empty streets, and he wished for coffee (strong and black) and possibly earplugs to help deal with the way that Hummel's superior attitude and patronizing tone, as he openly mocked the few people on the street for their clothing, bearing, or assumed success at life, just grated violently on his nerves.

And as the week passed, things in no way got any better. Kurt Hummel's casual brand of cruelty towards the tech crew, his co-stars, and even random strangers spoke heavily to Mike of his conviction of his own greatness. For the most part, Mike found himself ignored, which should have been a blessing, but it rankled. Mercedes and Artie were both good company, but the moment Hummel joined them, everything changed. It was obvious they both admired the star, but the incessant attention and slight fawning was really a bit of a mystery. It became clear to Mike that his employer didn't chat with friends: he _held court_. And since Hummel ignored him, Artie and Mercedes did too, probably glad of the extra attention he gave _them_ instead.

Frankly, this wasn't the worst job Mike had ever taken, (that was definitely the time he had to work for Mr. Ryerson, a paranoid nobody who somehow got hold of enough money to hire a bodyguard to protect him from... well, Mike had never really figured that part out.) However, it was probably the most exhausting. Every day was a struggle for power, as Hummel constantly reminded him of his position as an employee. Lazily assessing glances and orders were thrown at him constantly.

"_Are you eating a chocolate bar? I know it's your lunch break, but really. I can feel my skin breaking out as we speak. I'm going to have to insist that you throw that out. Please don't argue; I'd hate to have to fire you over something so _trivial._"_

Friday night he got off early after escorting Hummel back to his apartment. Artie gave him a lift home, playing some indie rock CD by a band Mike had never heard of, (and he was certain he heard Artie singing along at times), so he made it home relatively early. Because of this, he was able to watch the Letterman Show.

He hadn't watched the filming on Monday, having opted to wait with Artie in the foyer of the theatre instead. Now, as he watched, he felt an angry tightness in his chest as Hummel skirted questions about his love life to instead talk about his new movie. In the end, he muted the interview until it was done so that he wouldn't be forced to listen to that damned pretentious voice. He turned the volume back up for the next interview however, to listen to the current Vice President discuss the situation with the withdrawal of troops from war zones.

His opinions on his latest employer came up on Sunday, a week after he got the job. At the Shark Fighting Ring, he was facing off against Noah Puckerman.

Mike had met Puck mere weeks after he returned to New York following his departure from the army. Mike had been attending the funeral with Tina when he was reunited with Matt, his best friend from high school. They hadn't had time to talk then, because it was cold and miserable and Tina looked like her whole world was ending. However, Matt had left Mike his number, so they met up at a bar later that night.

Mike had only been back a few weeks by that point, but already he was feeling hemmed in. There was a constant hum of noise everywhere he went, and there were so many _people_. After three years of constant movement, he felt directionless. Sometime between the third and the seventh drink Matt noticed this.

The next day he dragged Mike down the street at sunset towards a small boxing club.

Fighting was something Mike loved. It was pure energy, all speed and grace and violence. All his life he had felt lost- he'd dreamed his way through college, dropped out of university. But fighting... fighting gave him _focus_. It set off a fire in his chest not unlike the one he felt when dealing with Hummel, except that in the ring he could respond, he could fight back without the risk of being fired. And if he occasionally saw Hummel's face as he dragged other men down to the ground? A little imagination harms no one.

The man he was currently dragging down to the ground was the self-proclaimed King of the Ring. (Matt kept changing it to 'Lord' instead, always with a little smirk on his face. Puck got it, but Finn, the co-owner, didn't. When asked about it later, Puck explained that he didn't watch it for all that nerdy shit, he watched it for the hot chick with the sword.)

Puck was definitely Mike's favourite opponent. He was big, and he was strong, and he fought _dirty_. It was almost a challenge.

The jeering audience, all bloodied and bruised from their own fights, yelled out praise and insults, but it all faded into the background as Mike swayed out of the way of a wild punch. Everything around him was white noise, static, standing still while inside the ring everything moved at lightning speed. His vision tunnelled until all he could see was Puck, and all he could hear was the pound of feet against the mat and his opponent's taunts.

" Getting any action on your new job, Chang? I've seen Hummel in a couple movies, seems like a prissy little queen."

Puck could be a bit of a jackass in a fight. Mike kicked him hard just above the kneecap for good measure. The man went down.

"Shit, man, don't need to be offended. I was just wondering if you had gotten to stop any nasty _criminals_ yet." The snide chuckle rung in Mike's ears as Puck wiped the sweat off his forehead with extreme nonchalance, then wiped his hand off on his mohawk. Mike had to admit it was a little bad-ass.

His slight admiration didn't stop him from getting onto his knees to get in a solid right cross. "Yeah, well, euphemisms are a bitch," he replied.

He pressed his forearm against Puck's bare throat and pressed him down to the ground, pinning him. He said, "Besides Hummel doesn't date. He doesn't flirt, he doesn't date, he doesn't even seem to really like men. Besides, he's annoying as hell."

Puck shoved him off, using his superior weight to send Mike flying across the slick mat.

Clambering up, Puck gave Mike a sardonic little grin, saying, "Maybe he's just pulling your pigtails, Chang."

Then Puck dove at him.

Everything seemed to slow in Mike's mind. It was the make-it-or-break-it moment: Puck was leaping towards him, arms outstretched and a manic glint in his eye. This fight could end two ways. Either Puck would be in pain, or Mike would.

As Puck threw himself at Mike, Mike extended his right leg directly, with the heel of his foot pointing towards Puck's kidney. In slow motion, he saw Puck crumple around his foot. Puck's eyes bulged out and sweat flew off his forehead, beating a light rhythm against the ground. His face reddened heavily. Then time snapped back into place and Puck was flying backwards, clutching at his stomach and cursing heavily. He collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, and yelled, "Stop!"

And Mike started to notice the world around him again.

Puck had lost, and the fight was over.

As Finn stepped into the ring to check on his friend, Mike pushed his way through the crowd, thoroughly ignoring the approving slaps he was receiving on his back, his arms. He grabbed his shirt off the floor. He felt like he couldn't get enough air, like his lungs were suddenly too small. Mike stumbled out of the room, and the stench of soured sweat dissipated as he swung open the front doors into the cool night air.

Mike slumped down against the hard, cement steps that led up to the club. Using his shirt, he swiped the sweat off his face, then shrugged it on. (You never know what kind of perverts are eyeing the view.)

That had been intense.

Normally Puck wasn't able to get under his skin that easily. Mike knew that was just Puck's thing when he fought: he talked shit to distract his opponent, to make them stupid. Every guy in that room had their own technique. Finn was huge, all he had to do to win was sit down on the other fighter and stay put. Matt was incredibly ambidextrous, and would surprise his attacker with a sudden left hook. And Mike was fast. So, so fast.

The doors behind him swung open, and he could hear boisterous shouting from within. Another fight must have started.

Footsteps approached, then a bottle of water was thrust into his hands. Nodding his appreciation to his friend, Mike unscrewed the cap, tipped his head back and gulped it down. Once he was finished, he stared blankly at the empty bottle in his hands.

Matt punched his arm. Turning, Mike saw that he was being offered a second, full bottle. He smiled shakily at Matt.

The two friends sat together on the steps in the real world as behind them others continued to live their fantasy. And maybe in another five minutes, they too would return to keep fighting, keep living. And tomorrow, they would go back to their jobs again, back to managing a company and back to silently protecting a spoiled starlet, in dreary monotony until next Sunday at 7:30. But for now, Mike was content to sit beside Matt, under the dark sky as a slight breeze chilled his soaking shirt.

AN: Eowyn is so fucking bad-ass. End of story.

I'm so sorry for the long wait- my computer got infected and McAfee was being incompetent. Anyway, there should only be a couple more chapters left; the big reveal (or whatever) for Mike is next chapter, and after that there's just a little angst until a happy ending. I just hope that I get this up before the deadline for the Kurt/Mike Fest... I am so easily distracted, but there's so much good fic out there that needs reading! It calls to me, my preciousss!

... Am I the only one who finds Artie ridiculously hard to write for?


	4. Chapter 4

Title: The Fame Monster

Chapter: 4/?

Author: Invalidattempt

Characters/Pairings: Kurt, Mike, Mercedes, Artie. Kurt/Mike.

Length: 3,400 words approximately

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Violence. Lots and lots of swearing.

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, end of story, goodbye.

AN: Written for the Kurt/Mike Summer Love Fic Fest prompt #68: Movie star Kurt, Bodyguard Mike. The real reason Kurt Hummel never dates.

Summary: Mike Chang really doesn't like Kurt Hummel. Mike Chang thinks Kurt Hummel is a pretentious egotist obsessed with garnering media attention. Too bad Mike Chang's new job is protecting Kurt Hummel.

Mike had been working for Kurt Hummel for exactly one month the day he got home late and heard someone singing.

It had been another long, long day at work. Hummel had a movie premiering in a few days, and the fans had become rabid. It seemed like the very moment he and his boss stepped out the door someone would be there, asking for an autograph.

Occasionally, a particularly deluded fan would show up. This was why Mike had been hired: to keep the crazies from grabbing the golden boy. In the past week, at least five women and three men (and one scary toddler) had bypassed security around the set where Hummel was working and tried to enter his trailer.

It was therefore entirely understandable that Mike was in a terrible mood when he returned home from work. His knuckle was stinging from where the toddler had bit him, his shoulder ached after a woman swung a large purse undoubtedly full of bricks at him, and he had one of those skull-cracking migraines that no amount of Tylenol would ever fix. That last was all thanks to his boss.

Mike grumbled under his breath as he collapsed onto the couch, rubbing his temples with one hand. As the premiere of 'In the Air' approached, Hummel became more and more tense. While he had always been snide, he was becoming incredibly obnoxious under pressure. The insults and criticisms were coming hard and fast, directed at anyone who dared enter a twenty-foot radius of the star. Never more than now had Mike resented the fact that it was part of his job description to be _silent_.

He reached blindly for the coffee table in front of the couch, searching for the pack of Advil he had taken to leaving out for days just like this. Mike cursed as he realized that the packet was empty, (had he really had _that_ many bad days?) so he made his way towards the kitchen for more.

It was as he was entering the kitchen that he began to hear the music. The kitchen in his apartment opened directly into a hallway that lead to his laundry room, and he could tell that was where the noise came from. Above the constant hum of the wash cycle, a pretty melody floated as someone sang.

Forgetting the Advil for the moment, Mike followed the music down the hall and into the next room, where he found Tina. She was sitting atop his old-fashioned washing machine, swaying to the beat with her eyes shut as she sang. Mike took a moment to enjoy the picture she made, all black-clad in the middle of the white, white room, before he spoke.

"Can't you do laundry in your dorms?"

Tina's eyes snapped open and the song stopped abruptly. She grinned widely at him, jumping off the washer and giving him a big hug. Mike smiled into her hair as all the badness of the day faded away.

As she pulled away, she said, "Yeah, I could, but then I'd have to pay. Everything's free here!"

Mike chuckled, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and leading her towards the kitchen.

It made him so happy seeing her like this, laughing and happy. University had changed her for the better – she was so much more confident now. When Mike had first met her, she was ten years old and could barely stutter out a shy greeting, standing half-hidden behind her father with her shoulders hunched. When their parents moved in together, Mike had done what he could to make her feel more comfortable, and she seemed to have appreciated it, but she never came fully out of her shell. He was twenty-one when he joined the army after his mother's death, but Tina still hid behind her long hair when she spoke to people, and she still had that damn stutter.

He left the army as soon as he heard what had happened. He returned to find that all her insecurity had melted away once she started doing what she loved every day. Tina was an amazing singer, and in Juilliard she had found similarly talented people with similar goals. Of course there was loads of drama and vicious competition, but under the guidance of good teachers and a few new friends, Tina had thrived. She had left her stutter behind, and he had never seen her look happier.

Well, once the funeral was over she looked happier. But even then, she seemed stronger than before.

Mike was snapped from his thoughts as Tina opened the fridge, pulling out his leftover lasagna. He took it from her and popped it in the microwave, setting the timer.

"So," he started, "How are things going at school?"

"Good, things are good. " She smiled, and said, "That's the piece I'm going to be performing on Friday. Do you like it?"

"It sounded great, Tina."

The microwave dinged, and he pulled the lasagna out. He cut it in half, then put the two pieces onto two plates that Tina offered him. Mike handed one plate to Tina, then they went to sit at his small table.

"I'm not just here to do my laundry, you know, Mike."

He raised an eyebrow in question at her, as he couldn't ask himself- his mouth was full.

"You remember what's coming up in a week, right? It's Father's Day, Mike. Last year, you forgot to ask Matt for the day off until the very last minute. I just wanted to remind you so that you could give K-Kurt a little more notice."

He frowned, looking away. No matter how much his job annoyed him sometimes, he hated asking for time off. But maybe Hummel would take the day off too. He probably had rich parents hidden away somewhere, right? And if he went and visited them, then Mike would be free for the day.

He stood up to clear the plates as Tina went to go check on her laundry. Once she was out of sight, however, he pulled out the drawer beside the oven, shoving aside his spare tablecloth to grab his chequebook. He made out one of the cheques in Tina's name, and then made his way to the front door where her coat and bag were lying, slipping it into one of her pockets. (He knew how tight money was for her, sometimes.)

And the next day he approached Hummel, just as he had promised Tina before she left.

Hummel had an appointment with some big-name designer that Mike had never heard of, because apparently the designer wanted Hummel to be wearing his clothes at the upcoming premiere. Mike, for the first time, followed him inside the building, instead of waiting outside like he normally did. As Hummel neared the front desk, however, he slowed, turning to stare inquisitively at Mike.

"What are you doing here?"

Mike sighed, scratching at the back of his neck, and trying to think of how to ask. Taking a full day off would seem excessive, probably, but he had promised…

"Do you have a mute button I need to switch off? If you've got something to say, just get on with it. I need to be on time to make sure the suit isn't _too flamboyant_." Mike couldn't help raising his eyebrows pointedly, glancing down at the golden epaulets on Hummel's hot pink shirt. Mike had no doubt this was considered the cutting-edge of fashion, but it was still _definitely_ flamboyant.

Seeing where he was looking, Kurt glared up at him, explaining through clenched teeth, "I am the male love interest in this flick. No one will take screen-version-me seducing Blake Lively seriously if all they can think about is the feather boa I wore on the red carpet. Now, if you're done wasting my time –"

"I need the nineteenth off. Next week."

Hummel froze. He was staring at Mike with huge eyes, and seemed to be speechless.

Feeling compelled to continue, Mike said, "It's Father's Day –"

"We'll talk about this later."

"But –"

"I said we'll talk about this later!"

Mike leaned back in surprise. He didn't think he had ever seen Hummel so worked up: his fists were clenched, his face was ashen, and his deep voice was a low growl. Without another look at Mike, Hummel spun around and strode over to the front desk, completely ignoring him.

Fuming, Mike turned and left the building. What the hell was that?

Outside, Artie was leaning against his car, watching as Mercedes headed for the nearest Starbucks. Mike went to stand beside him. They stood in silence, as Mike raged in his head against his employer (why was he so damn unreasonable? God, Tina was going to be so disappointed), until finally Mike burst out, "I can't stand him!"

Artie glanced at him in surprise, then said, "Who? Kurt?"

"Artie, you seem like a good guy," Mike said. "Why the hell are you working for him?"

Artie chuckled at him, but when Mike scowled, he raised a placating hand. "Mike, I know Kurt can be a jerk, and he's definitely a bitch sometimes, but- he's not always like this. I don't know why he's giving you so much grief, but you see the way he is with me and 'Cedes, it's totally different. Besides, I owe him, like, everything."

Mike gestured for him to continue. One more piece of the Hummel puzzle was about to be laid down.

"I'm going to be a dancer, Mike. But I come from a small town in Ohio, where good dance classes – classical dance classes – are damn hard to find. So I'm here, saving up my pennies until I can afford to go to a _real_ dance school. Those things are freaking expensive, you know? But Kurt hired me – and now I'm making twice, maybe three times as much as I would at any other job.

Another year, maybe another two? I'll be taking classes. I'll be doing what I love! And then, there's the big league; music videos, stuff like that. It's my dream, and Kurt's helping me make it happen."

"Kurt? Kurt Hummel?"

Oh _fuck_. One of the people walking by must have been a fan.

"_Oh my God!_"

And suddenly people were gathering, crowding together on the sidewalk in front of the outlet, and while many of them were teenagers and middle-aged women there were a few bigger guys that could be trouble.

Mike spun to face Artie, but he was already talking. "Go grab Kurt, head for the back exit. I'll be waiting."

With a curt nod, Mike ran for the door, shoving through the people blocking his way. Once he made it into the building, he rushed towards the room he had seen Hummel enter. Ignoring the receptionist's protests, he barged in, interrupting his boss mid-rant.

"You think I would be caught dead in _bell-bottoms_? Just because they've got a label on them doesn't mean – Chang?"

Mike grabbed his arm roughly, steering him out of the room. Hummel struggled in his grasp for a moment (and he was stronger than he looked, Mike thought), before relenting, tossing the offending garment back at the red-faced designer.

"We've got a bit of a situation on our hands."

Hummel sighed, jogging slightly to keep up with Mike's quick pace as he searched for the exit sign. "It's the fans, isn't it? What with the premiere, I should have been expecting a rampant outbreak of obsession."

As he swung open the door, Mike glanced at Hummel. He sounded harried, and he looked exhausted.

(Maybe fame isn't treating him well. Well, you can't have your cake and eat it too.)

A blast of fresh air hit their faces as they exited the building, blowing Mike's hair into his eyes as he neared the car. He didn't notice anything was wrong until the tinted window of the driver's seat rolled down.

A stranger sat in Artie's place.

"Get in the car, now, or I blast your man."

He was a big man, broad and strong; he was probably one of those guys Mike had been worrying about out front. And he was pointing a gun at Artie's head. Artie, who was sitting in the passenger seat, hands bound by one of his own suspenders.

Hummel was frozen beside the car, one hand on the door and every muscle in his body visibly tensed. His lips pursed, then he opened the door and got in.

Hummel was either very foolish, very brave, or more selfless than he had thought, Mike decided. He followed Hummel into the car. He shut the door, carefully so as not to startle the armed psycho, then attached his seat belt. (After his mother's death, he had promised Tina the same thing wouldn't happen to him. No flying through windshields for Michael Chang.)

The man in the front struggled to work out how to start the car without putting down the gun, but Mike's attention was focused on Artie. The kid (although he wasn't really, not much younger than Mike, but still not much older than Tina, _and, God, don't think about her now_) was trembling, his face was bloodless under his tan, and his eyes were fixed somewhere behind Mike's head.

Mike twisted slightly, staring out the rear window of Artie's SUV until he saw what was behind him.

Mercedes was making her way down the alley, balancing a tray of Starbucks coffees in one hand and texting with her other. She was headed right for the car, and so right for the maniac behind the wheel.

Just then, the car snapped forward as the man up front worked out his conundrum, and Mike was snapped back into a regular seated position facing forward, but not before he saw Mercedes' eyes widen as she saw them leave.

The car sped around the corner out of the alley, heading down the mostly empty main road at break-neck speed. The driver kept one hand on the steering wheel while the other pointed the gun at Artie's head. He turned his eyes from the road to face Hummel (and Mike really wished he wouldn't do that.)

"Hiya, Mr. Hummel. Allow me to introduce myself; my name is Dave, and I'm a _huuuuge_ fan."

'Dave' spoke conversationally, but he was leering in a way that worried Mike.

"I hope you don't mind this little detour from your everyday schedule," and he said 'schedule' in that snooty, upper-class British way where the 'sch-' sounds like 'sh', "but I just saw your man out there and had to act. _Carpe diem_ and all."

The man was almost definitely mocking Hummel, Mike decided, which meant that this wasn't going to be one of those cases where the assailant just wanted to make some celebrity a cup of tea but wasn't sure how to ask. Whatever Dave was intending, it wouldn't end well for Hummel, and it looked like he knew it. He sat rigidly straight behind the passenger seat, eyes flicking back and forth between Artie and the driver.

Dave stepped a little harder on the gas pedal.

If he leaned over slightly, Mike could see the odometer. Dave was pushing 60 mph, and he still wasn't watching the road. Mike was about to comment on it ('Kidnapping is pointless if the target is dead' or something like that) when the sirens started wailing, a chorus of jarring angels to Mike's ears.

He allowed himself a tiny smile; Mercedes must have realised what was going on. For all her diva issues, she was incredibly quick on the uptake. Mike swayed a little to the right so that he could see the road reflected in the rear-view mirror.

No less than three police cars were following them.

Dave swore violently as he also checked the mirror. "This wasn't how it was supposed to go at all. God _damn_!"

He was sweating profusely, eyes darting from side to side for an escape. He tried a sharp turn down a side street, but the cops weren't shaken.

Mike watched Dave nervously. He was reaching the stage of 'fight or flight' where people did stupid, stupid things to save their own skins. Stupid, stupid things that could put any one of the other three passengers at risk.

The sirens were getting louder as the cars got nearer, ringing in Mike's ears. Dave was throwing panicked glances over his shoulder, and his driving grew more and more hectic, veering from side to side.

And then one of the police cars drew up beside the passenger door.

"_Fuck._"

And then Dave was grabbing Artie with one hand, Artie who didn't have his seatbelt on, and he was kicking the door open with one foot (Christ, they were definitely going to crash!). And then he was shoving Artie out of the car, hands bound and eyes wide, and Artie was slamming into the police car.

A violent cry was torn from Hummel as he watched, high-pitched and feral.

Everything slowed down.

Artie was out of the car, which meant Dave had no more collateral, which meant Mike could act.

The sirens, while still going, faded into the background as Mike grabbed the headrest of the passenger seat, pulled himself to the side to create a clear path from his foot to Dave's head.

As his foot flew out, Mike could see the minute widening of Dave's eyes as he realised what was happening, he could see Dave's hands gripping the wheel tighter, and then… impact.

And Dave crashed forward, head smashing against the wheel, and the car swung to the left completely out of control, and they were crashing and _Hummel wasn't wearing his seat belt!_

Letting go of the headrest, Mike snapped back into his seat, one arm shooting out and grabbing Hummel as he went. He reeled Hummel in and clutched him tightly to his own body, twisting to shield him as all the world exploded around them.

Then everything was fire and sharp and glass but his heart was still beating and Hummel was warm in his arms, one hand clinging to his bicep and the other pressed against his chest.

Hummel had his head tucked under Mike's chin, and he was mumbling quietly. Mike could hear policemen shouting, he could hear new sirens signalling the arrival of the paramedics, but he couldn't hear what Hummel mumbled.

Mike reached (and _Jesus_ that hurt – there was probably some glass digging into his arm) and undid the seatbelt, then pushed Hummel towards the undamaged door on the side opposite the impact. Hummel fumbled with the lock, then pulled the handle and shoved the door open, falling out onto the hard pavement. Mike followed carefully, standing up and gazing around in dazed shock.

An ambulance had pulled up beside Artie's prone body (was he breathing? Mike couldn't tell.) The NYPD were parking all around them, while policemen ran to check on them. Others were trying to figure out how to extricate Dave's (mangled) body from the wreckage. Hummel sat at his feet, leaning against the car. He looked like a mess; his hair fell haphazardly and his prized clothes were now dirty and ripped. His knees were drawn up to his chest, and he was shaking, staring into the distance towards the ambulance. Now that they were out, Mike could hear what he was saying.

"_Artie_. Oh God, Artie."

Mike knelt in front of him, feeling all the aches in his body come alive with the simple movement. He put his hands on Hummel's shoulders, and shook him lightly until he met Mike's eyes.

"Come on, Hummel, it's okay. We're out, we're safe, we're fine."

Hummel looked up at him with huge green eyes that were glazed with horror. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, and unusually high.

"He was going to be a dancer, you know. He was so good. I don't think he can dance anymore."

"Hummel, chill out. Deep breaths, Hu– Kurt. Deep breaths. You're hyper-ventilating, Kurt; if you don't breathe properly, you are going to pass out."

Hummel looked up at him, confusion etched all over his face. He took a few deep breaths, but when he spoke his voice remained at the same pitch. "I'll be fine, Chang. Don't you think you should be worrying about Artie, instead of me? He flew out of a fucking _car, _in case you'd forgotten."

… He did seem to be breathing normally. "But your voice – you can't be breathing properly, you can't be calm, are you sure you aren't hurt? Your voice, it's too –"

Hummel sat up rigidly. His mouth tightened and his eyes snapped wide. He looked _terrified_.

Hold on.

He was breathing normally? He wasn't totally freaking out? Then why – why –

Oh.

Christ.

_It's too high._

AN: Okay guys, three more chapters and we're done. They should all be shorter than this one, so hopefully I'll meet the deadline…

Please leave a comment and tell me what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

Title: The Fame Monster (5/7)

Author: Invalidattempt

Characters/Pairings: Only Kurt and Mike in this one, but mention of some other characters. Kurt/Mike.

Words: 2, 400 ~

Rating: PG-13 for swearing.

Disclaimer: I don't own Glee, nor do I own Doogie Howser.

AN: Written for the Kurt/Mike Summer Love Fic Fest prompt #68: Movie star Kurt, Bodyguard Mike, why Kurt Hummel never dates.

Summary: Mike Chang really doesn't like Kurt Hummel. Mike Chang thinks Kurt Hummel is a pretentious egotist obsessed with garnering media attention. Too bad Mike Chang's new job is protecting Kurt Hummel.

A heavy silence hung in the air in the back seat of the taxi. Mike stared out his window, listening with half an ear to the radio, where Britney was singing about a girl named 'Lucky'. He could feel Hummel's nervous stare burning into the back of his head, but he forced himself not to turn around. Instead, he watched blindly as cars and buildings and people rushed past. Even as he looked at them, all he could see was Artie being wheeled into an ambulance, and all he could hear was Hummel's voice, high and melodious and urgent as he begged, "Don't say a word. Not one word. Just – just wait. Please."

The cab pulled up outside Hummel's apartment, and Mike shoved the door open with a bit more force than necessary. He leaned against the car in the humid summer air, listening to Hummel pay the driver, listening to Hummel thank him, voice once again deep. Then Mike followed Hummel into the building.

The ride up to the seventh floor was quiet. Once they got out of the elevator, Hummel strode to the door of his apartment, fumbling with his key for a moment before successfully unlocking the door. His hands were trembling.

Hummel vanished into one of the rooms as soon as they got in, leaving Mike to wander aimlessly around the living room. The couch looked comfortable, and he knew it would be heaven to let his tired and banged-up body relax, but he felt incredibly restless, so instead he examined the bookshelves, chuckling quietly at the selection (_Harry Potter_, _The Art of War_, _Pride and Prejudice_, and a complete set of the _Calvin and Hobbes_ treasuries caught his eye.) Then, he moved to look at a collection of pictures assembled above the electric fireplace.

There were many photos hung above the fireplace, photos of Hummel with Mercedes, a couple of photos of him posing with Quinn, one of Santana and Brittany kissing his cheeks as he blushed furiously red, even one taken as he won an Emmy for his guest star role on Ugly Betty. The glass of the frames glinted with light reflected from the faux-chandelier that hung in the middle of the room.

On the mantelpiece, however, there were only three photos. In the center, in a beautiful frame, stood a photo of a small, bright-eyed Kurt Hummel gesticulating at a poster for the Mickey Mouse Club as a woman smiled proudly at him, one arm wrapped around his shoulders. She had chestnut-brown hair and the same wide green eyes as Hummel did.

The second photo showed Hummel smiling, waving at the camera, with Sue Sylvester standing behind him, one hand on his shoulder, unintentionally copying the pose from the other photo. Here, Hummel looked older, like he was carrying a weight with him. He couldn't be more than sixteen, but his smile looked strained.

The final picture was, oddly, facing the wall, as though someone had turned it away. Mike couldn't help his burgeoning curiosity, so he glanced around quickly and saw that Hummel was still in the other room. Mike picked up the photo, flipping it around to examine it. It was framed simply, and wasn't of particularly good quality; it was a little blurred and the photo had been taken from a strange angle. Mike inspected the photo and discovered that this was because the photo was being taken by the man in the photo. The man was grinning broadly into the camera, face ruddy and set with twinkling eyes, as he mussed up Hummel's hair. Hummel's face, laughing despite an expression of outrage, had been caught by the camera, preserved in a moment of happiness. Mike stared at Hummel, stuck in the headlock of a large man in flannel and looking more alive than Mike had ever seen him, and felt his throat tighten.

The sound of a door swinging open had Mike swiftly replacing the photo so that it was once again facing the wall, and swinging around to face Hummel as he finally exited his room. He had removed his ruined clothes, and now wore a simple oversized T-shirt over a pair of leggings. It was a strange look, but somehow it worked. He looked young, so, so young, and Mike realized that if Hummel had been nine the year the 'All-New MMC' had ended, as Tina had said, that meant Hummel was a whole year younger than him. It was a disorienting thought; Hummel always seemed so together. His constant air of superiority aged him thoroughly.

Feeling a sudden sting of pain, Mike inspected his arm as Hummel made for the kitchen. The paramedics had been frantically working with Artie, and hadn't had much time for either of the other two survivors. They had dealt with the few major cuts Mike had obtained in the collision, and made them promise to check in with a doctor as soon as possible, then hurried away to the gurney Artie was being strapped on, muttering worrying things about 'spine' and 'fractures' and 'permanent'. In the rush, it seemed they had missed a scrape on his arm.

"Do you have any band-aids?" He asked.

Hummel paused as he opened the fridge, then turned and pointed wordlessly towards a door off the hallway. (Mike wondered if Hummel thought not talking would make him forget what he had heard, earlier.)

The door opened into a luxurious bathroom, complete with Jacuzzi-tub. Mike allowed himself a moment to drool with envy, then began opening the cupboards searching for bandages.

Once he found them, he returned to the kitchen. Hummel was sipping a glass of milk, his eyes following Mike as he moved. Mike settled onto one of the couches, opening the box of band-aids. He stopped when he heard Hummel clear his throat.

Hummel met his gaze for a moment, then averted his eyes. Quietly, he said, (and his voice was high and it sounded so _natural_ and yet unnatural, too) "How much do you want?"

There was a beat of silence as Mike processed this question.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Hummel snapped acidly. He was no longer staring determinedly at the counter top; instead, he was glaring intensely into Mike's eyes. "How much will it cost to keep you from going to the press?"

Mike returned the glare with equal animosity. "How about some answers? How about you explain how America's 'most eligible bachelor' somehow actually has the voice of a chipmunk?"

Hummel gaped at him.

(Okay, Mike acknowledged, that was a little harsh.)

Hummel's face was pale and his fists were clenched with rage as he spat, "Why the fuck do you _think_, Chang?"

Honestly, Mike couldn't think of a single reason.

"Are you a woman?"

Now Hummel wasn't pale; his face had flushed bright red all the way to the tips of his ears. He snarled, "Are you _for real_? Do you need me to _whip it out_ so you can _check_?"

Mike was about to yell back that he _didn't know_, he was so damn confused because all of a sudden some things were making sense but so many more weren't making any sense at all. But in his head he could see those pictures of little Kurt, of happy Kurt, and he thought that maybe here, right now, this was his chance to figure out what had changed between then and now. He took a deep breath, then let it out. When he looked back up, Hummel was once again staring at the counter as though it held the answers to all of life's mysteries, not even noticing the little trickle of blood streaking down from where he'd grazed his cheek when he'd fallen out of the car in his rush to escape.

Mike stood up slowly, repressing a groan as he felt his muscles strain, and approached the counter, box of band-aids in hand. He wrapped a hand around Hummel's bicep and lead him to a seat perched next to the island in the middle of the kitchen. Instead of using the chair, Hummel hoisted himself up to sit daintily on top of the island. As he settled himself, Mike turned to the sink, grabbing a clean washcloth and wetting it.

Without turning around again, he asked, "Why would I go to the tabloids?"

A bitter chuckle came from behind him, then Hummel replied, "For publicity. If anyone found out, it would ruin me. I'd never work again, probably."

Mike felt that angry knot in the pit of his stomach clench, but he kept his hand steady as he returned to Hummel and began to clean the graze with the wet cloth. He knew, however, that his anger was clear in his voice as he said through clenched teeth, still diligently wiping the scrape, "So it's about your career. You've been lying for – God, it must be years now. You've been lying to advance your career. You'll do anything for fame, won't you?"

Hummel tensed beneath his hands, but he didn't move. Through clenched teeth, he asked, "What makes you think that, Chang?"

Mike lowered the cloth and grabbed a band-aid from the box, then he straightened to look Hummel in the eye. "The fancy clothes, all the interviews – do you do one every single week? It feels like it."

He bit back the last part of his answer, the accusation that had been dancing on the tip of his tongue for weeks now.

Hummel's breath hitched slightly as Mike leaned in to place the band-aid down across his cheek, but said, "You hesitated. Spit it out, Chang. What exactly have I done that makes you so angry, what have I done to further my own popularity?"

Having finished with the band-aid, Mike inspected his work, then braced himself with his hands against the top of the island, effectively trapping Hummel. Reading the challenge in his eyes, Mike finally breathed, "You came out to the world on national television. You said you were gay."

Hummel was staring at him now; it wasn't a glare, it wasn't a scowl, he was staring at Mike with confusion in his eyes.

Mike continued, feeling the relief of honesty, finally honesty, coursing through his veins. "You just hopped on the band-wagon. It didn't hurt that guy – who was it? It didn't hurt , uh, 'Doogie Howser's' reputation at all. Did you think it would give you an edge, so that you wouldn't be just another cardboard-cut-out celebrity, so that people would think you were an actual person, not just a figure on a screen? Did you just decide, well, one more lie couldn't hurt? What–"

"Stop."

The command was quiet, but intense.

"I _am_ gay."

Mike snorted in disbelief.

Hummel jumped off of his perch to stand in front of Mike, forcing him to take a step back. Mike cursed himself inwardly for allowing Hummel that advantage, so he stepped back, crowding Hummel's personal space. Neither gave an inch, glaring face-to-face in front of the island in the brightly lit kitchen.

Hummel scowled at him, saying, "Why do you get to deny what I'm saying? You don't get to decide whether or not I like men, you know. If you have a problem with it, that's your issue –"

"But that's just it, Hummel," Mike stated calmly, "I did my research for this job. If you really like _men_, why haven't you _ever_ dated a man?"

And there it was.

Mike waited, full of certainty that Hummel wouldn't have a reply. What could he say to that, anyway? He was shocked when Hummel burst out into a loud peal of laughter, head thrown back as the light in the kitchen highlighted the line of his throat. He laughed so hard he clutched at his sides, but his eyes were wild and angry.

Gasping for breath, Hummel leaned back against the island for support. He said, "That's it? That's the best you've got? _I don't date men_?"

Mike glanced away, mind clouding with doubt. (But, but...)

"I don't date men, Chang. I don't date anybody! How could I?" Hummel leaned forward now, getting into his face, and Mike found he couldn't look away from those desperately unhappy eyes. "How can I date anybody without them finding out? Without them finding out, without them telling everybody? Maybe they wouldn't; maybe I'd find a nice guy. But that nice guy would have family. He'd have friends. And he'd let it slip, and then they'd let it slip, and then I'd be working as a waiter for the rest of my life, because _no one_ would hire me if they knew I talked like _this_."

Hummel seemed to hunch in on himself. He dropped his gaze, and Mike felt like he was being released from some kind of hypnosis; for a minute there, he had felt like he couldn't breathe, he was so caught in the impassioned speech and the vivid eyes.

Wrapping his arms around himself, Hummel spoke quietly. "I've been lying to the whole world since I was sixteen years old, since Sue told me I'd be typecast as the 'gay best friend' forever if I didn't hit puberty. I've lost _everything_. Coming out, it was the only honesty I could afford. I was able to say, 'this is me' and have it be the truth."

Guilt filled Mike's throat like bile, sour and impossible to repress.

"Hummel..." He corrected himself. "Kurt. I'm sorry."

Kurt closed his eyes, but nodded.

"I've put my foot in my mouth a hundred times tonight," Mike admitted, "and I might be about to do it one more time. It's just – wouldn't it be better to just tell the truth? You're talented, people have seen what you can do, it wouldn't be the end of your acting career or anything."

Kurt rubbed at his temples, and Mike smiled a little at the familiar gesture. That was something he did all the time, too. "Please, Ch – Mike, please try to understand." He gestured helplessly, then continued, "Maybe it wouldn't be that big a deal. Maybe everything would be fine. But I just can't risk it. This is what I do; I act. I love my job. When there's a camera rolling, and I'm surrounded by competent people doing their jobs, and I know that everything is going to work, that makes me more happy than I can possibly say. I can't risk that."

And maybe Mike did understand. He understood because when he fought, when he moved, he felt more happy than he could possibly say, too. And so he nodded. They stood in quiet solidarity under the bright light in the kitchen, because they'd both run out of words.

AN: Just two more parts! Please pardon any shoddy editing or writing- I'm trying to meet a deadline. This chapter was a lot of talking, but I hope it explained a couple of things about both Kurt and Mike for those of you who were confused. Thanks for the reviews from the last chapter, I wasn't very happy with my work on that one so I appreciated the encouragement.

Please leave a comment, your kind words speed my typing as I try to finish two more chapters before midnight tomorrow!


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